Come Break My Heart Again

by C. W. Farnsworth

  Me disbelieving.

  Scout disinterested.

  It’s not even five yet. I could easily make it back to the city tonight. Would only be one hour late for my engagement party dinner. Instead, I turn my car on and keep driving in the opposite direction.

  Not even crossing the border into New York deters me. I don’t stop until I see signs advertising the oldest city in the country is approaching. I’m far from a history buff, so I’ll take their word for it. It’s a charming, small town. Others who drive along the main street I’m currently rolling along probably appreciate the quaintness. Me? I’m appreciating the fact that none of the faces walking past on the sidewalk have any idea who I am. It’s rare I spend time among people who don’t know anything about me. It’s difficult to make different decisions when everyone around you is already expecting a certain one. Kind of like breaking out of a mold after you’ve already been shaped to fill it. Fitting into a different one can feel not only wrong—but also impossible.

  I keep driving until I come to a bed and breakfast with a vacancy sign. For a Wednesday evening in late May, it takes a surprisingly long time. I park along the quiet, tree-lined street and unload Scout, along with our belongings.

  As I walk up to the steps and across the porch dotted with rocking chairs, it occurs to me this may not be a dog-friendly establishment. The only trip I’ve taken since becoming a dog mom was a trip to the Amalfi Coast with William last summer, and my parents reluctantly took him. I’ve never traveled with a pet before.

  But the elderly woman doesn’t look twice at Scout as he follows me across the threshold into what looks to have originally been a living room and now is occupied by a large desk meant to greet visitors.

  “Good evening, dear,” the woman greets. “I’m May. You looking for a spot to stay?”

  “Yes, I am,” I reply, taken aback by her casual, friendly manner toward a complete stranger. City life has hardened me to such pleasantries. I was planning to ask about pets, but she clearly saw Scout and isn’t saying anything, so I opt not to.

  “How many nights?”

  “Uh, just the one, please.”

  “On your way elsewhere?”

  “Sure, I guess you could say that,” I respond.

  “All right.” I hand her my credit card, and she returns it with a room key. “Have a wonderful stay. Both of you.” She glances down at Scout and smiles.

  “Thanks.” I gather up the luggage again and start up the stairs just past the desk. Scout follows, happy to be out of the car and have a building filled with fresh scents to sniff.

  The door my key unlocks reveals a room filled with what looks like antique store cast-offs. It’s most definitely not my personal taste, which veers more toward the minimalistic, but it appears clean. Also, a large part of this impromptu stop was wanting to disappear someplace different for once. This most definitely qualifies.

  I feed Scout his dinner and set up his bed in the corner, grateful for my over-prepared nature. I packed enough for a week for both of us for what was only meant to be a day trip. The hallway is empty when I emerge from my room, and there’s no sign of anyone as I pass down the stairs either. There’s no one at the desk, so I step outside, onto the front porch. Immediately, I spot the same woman who checked me in. She’s seated in one of the rocking chairs, conversing with an older man who appears to be about the same age. They’re chatting happily, but both quiet when the door shuts behind me, announcing my presence to them.

  “Hello, dear,” May says, giving me a friendly smile.

  “Hi again,” I reply.

  “This here is my husband, Ed.” May waves an arm to the side in a scattered indication of the man seated next to her.

  “Nice to meet you,” I tell him. He smiles in response.

  “I’m looking for some dinner. Do you have any recommendations?” I ask.

  May’s eyes light up. I get the sense she’s the type of person who thrives on helping others and making them happy. If I were the same, I’d be seated in a bistro where entrees cost the same as I’m paying to sleep here tonight. “Of course! Are you looking for one of those touristy places?” The way she delivers “touristy places” makes it clear what my answer should be.

  “Not necessarily. Wherever you recommend,” I respond tactfully.

  “You should head to the tavern down on Elm Street. Two blocks down then to the left. Best burgers in town,” Ed informs me.

  May nods her agreement.

  I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten at a tavern, but I nod as though it’s a regular occurrence. “Great, I’ll head there. Thank you.”

  I make my way down the front steps and then begin walking along the sidewalk in the direction of the main downtown. Essentially three blocks of businesses. I glance back once before I turn the corner. Ed and May are still seated side by side in their rocking chairs, talking happily. They’re two strangers to me, ones who undoubtedly have challenges and complications in their own lives, and yet they seem completely content. Sitting next to one another and just talking at the end of the day. I try to think of a single time when William and I have done that. I come up blank. One—or both—of us is always doing something. A work assignment, reading the news, on our phones. Even the trips we’ve taken have been filled with guided tours and tastings. Not moments of companionable silence or deep conversation. I used to think that was a sign of a healthy relationship: how we’re always on the same page and rarely need to discuss anything. Now, I’m not so sure.

  The tavern May and Ed recommended is easy to locate. It’s also certainly not what one would describe as a “touristy place.” Situated between a barber and an old bookstore, the exterior reminds me of Ryder’s truck. Others may call it ancient or neglected but looking at the building gives me the same sense of hidden care and history. There are fresh flowers in the window boxes, and the white paint on the doors appears to have been newly applied. Unfortunately, the touches only emphasize the grimy gray stone the building is built from and the cigarette butts littering the sidewalk.

  A thin wisp of smoke rises from a still-lit stick as I pull open the white door. Either its owner failed to fully stamp it out or didn’t bother to at all. Looking around the raucous groups packing the high-top tables, either scenario seems equally likely. I squeeze past and around patrons dressed in flannels and thick work boots, despite the spring temperatures. The air is cooler in here, with the damp undertone of a basement but without the muskiness that often accompanies it. Instead, the scent of pine cleaner, fried food, and cigarette smoke swirls about. It sounds appalling, but I don’t mind it.

  I plop down on an empty barstool, studying the framed items displayed behind the counter with interest. It seems to be a mix of old sports paraphernalia, aged photographs, and ancient newspaper articles faded to yellow. I may have grown up in a small town, but not this kind of small town. One with quirky charm rather than carefully curated allure. A stained, but originally white rag slides down varnished wood and stops in front of me.

  “What can I get ya?”

  I follow the calloused fingers up a flannel-wearing arm to meet the gaze of a man I’d guess to be in his mid-fifties. His hair is just beginning to veer toward more gray than brown, but his hazel eyes are still sharp and assessing.

  “I’m not sure yet. Could I have a menu, please?” I request.

  “Don’t have one.” The rag starts moving again.

  “You don’t have a menu?”

  “Need me to repeat myself?”

  So much for the friendly small-town stereotype.

  “Nope. I’ll just have a…” Ed’s earlier words come back to me. “…burger, please.”

  The man nods once, looking marginally more friendly. “Drink?”

  “Um…” If they don’t have a food menu, I’m certain they won’t have a cocktail one. “Beer, I guess?”

  Another nod. “Bottle or tap?”

  “Whatever you recommend,” I reply.

  This time there’s no nod, just a
brief, discerning glance. “All right.”

  “A lighter one, though?” I request. The last time I had beer was in college, and the Guinness I tried then has played a large role in why I have yet to try more of the brewed beverage.

  This time, I get a lip quirk. “Sure thing.” He ambles away, only to return seconds later with a pint glass. It’s filled with amber-colored liquid and topped with a thin layer of white foam.

  “Thank you,” I tell him.

  “You don’t look like you’re from around here,” the man observes rather than walk off again. He leans against the counter and watches me take a sip of my beer. It’s not terrible. His sage, easy manner reminds me a little of Joe, who left Fernwood four years ago to retire closer to his grandchildren.

  “I’m not.”

  He keeps eyeing me, sensing there’s more to the story the same way Joe always seemed to. I sigh, giving in to his silent, blatant curiosity. “I’m from Boston.” I let some of my native accent saturate the city’s name. Baw-ston.

  “Ah.” The man nods, as though the revelation explains everything about my appearance and manner. I guess maybe it does. “What brings you across the border?”

  The beer sloshes close to the rim as I swirl the brewed alcohol in the glass. “I was trying to find some closure, I guess?”

  “And did you?” he inquires. I’m certain he already knows the answer. I’m not exactly radiating an aura of peace and contentment. I should have just said I’m here antique shopping and couldn’t find the right color of rug to explain away any melancholy.

  “Not exactly. There was someone I came to see, and I didn’t get to. Couldn’t.”

  He hums an acknowledgment. “You changed your mind?”

  “No, there were… other factors. I didn’t have any choice in the matter.” Even with a stranger I’m certain I’ll never see again, I feel the same compulsion to guard my weaknesses. To ensure the way I portray myself to the world is calm, cool, and collected. Not admitting I might not be over a guy I barely dated seven years ago. Especially now that I have a legitimate reason to genuinely believe what I’ve always secretly suspected—that he may not have actually committed the horrific crime he’s spent close to a decade supposedly atoning for.

  “Closure is something we give ourselves, Boston girl.”

  “I tried that,” I reply. “I tried that for a long time.”

  “Did you want to forget?”

  “Find closure? Yes. Forget? No.”

  “We never forget anything. Just choose how to remember it,” he replies.

  “You spouting more philosophical crap, Earl?” A tall, husky man with a shaggy beard takes the stool beside me. “No wonder they’re practically printing bills over at Tommy’s. People come to the bar for a cold beer, not a lecture on the meaning of life.”

  Earl shakes his head, but there’s a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth that signifies a clear fondness for the new arrival.

  “Usual, Jack?”

  “Please,” the man responds.

  Earl shuffles further down the bar top, and Jack turns to me. He’s younger than I assumed based on his clothes and voice. Beneath the thick beard is skin free from wrinkles, aside from a few creases around his brown eyes. From squinting, or smiling, or both.

  “I’m Jack.” He holds out a calloused palm for me to shake.

  “Elle.” I shake it.

  “No wonder Earl was tossing out advice. Don’t have many ladies who look like you coming through here.” I shift uncomfortably, worried he’s about to start hitting on me. I’m not wearing my engagement ring. I told myself it was because wearing a piece of jewelry worth six figures to a prison was an idiotic move. I know the real reason is I wanted to see how Ryder acted toward me without any visible sign I’ve moved on with my life.

  “Just looked like a nice place to stop for the night,” I reply, taking a sip of beer and hoping he’ll take the sign I’m not interested in talking. “Break from the city.”

  “Oh, we get plenty of city folk. Just none who look so sad to be here.”

  “Oh.” I drop the syllable so hard it seems like it should splash some beer in my face.

  “Bad trip so far?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Guy trouble?”

  I snort. “Yes, but not how you’re thinking.”

  “I forgot to ask. Did you want that burger for here or to go, miss?” Earl butts in. I glance up at him. This seems like a place you come to experience eating here. I’m surprised they even offer take-out. But Earl is glancing between Jack and me, and I’m pretty sure they actually don’t. He’s trying to protect me from any unwanted attention or prying, and despite his unsolicited advice before, it’s sweet.

  “To go, please.” I take the offered out. “It was a long day of driving.”

  Earl nods, although we both know the trip here from Boston is barely over four hours. Earl walks off, presumably to fetch my burger, and Jack continues chatting away. He seems to have also understood the hidden meaning in Earl’s question, because he doesn’t ask me anymore questions, just chats about his nephew’s upcoming baseball game. He’s friendly and easy to talk to, but even if I wasn’t engaged, I know he’s never the type of guy I’d date. I tend to stay true to my first impressions of people.

  “One burger.” Earl reappears, setting a Styrofoam carry-out container in front of me.

  “Thank you.” I’ve barely touched my beer so far, but it seems rude to leave it. I take a long gulp. Then another. And another. Until the glass is empty. Rather than look offended by my clear attempt at a hasty departure, both Earl and Jack appear impressed. “Have a good night.”

  They both repeat the pleasantry, but don’t say anything else in farewell as I grab the Styrofoam box and head toward the door. I grew more accustomed to the aromas inside the tavern than I realized, because the cool night air I’m greeted by smells almost bland. Fresh and clean, but absent an indication of anything else.

  I set off along the street, passing high school students, young families, and middle-aged couples. No other floundering women in their mid-twenties. Ironically, I know it appears as though I have my life completely together. I have a prominent piece of real estate in the heart of one of the busiest, most desirable cities, I have two degrees from Ivy League institutions that ensure I can essentially have my pick of high-paying career, and I have a fiancé just as wealthy and well-educated. Far more than most people my age.

  I’d love to blame Ryder James for the sudden feeling of being adrift. He’s definitely a part of the cause. The one person I was willing to shake up my life for. But I know a larger piece of it is my life isn’t just plans any longer.

  I’m not eventually going to marry a guy with a similar background to me. I’m currently engaged to him.

  I’m not eventually going to work at my father’s firm. I’ve graduated law school and have a written offer from Washington and Stevens.

  My life is falling perfectly into place, and rather than feeling satisfied, I’m battling the urge to smash it all apart.

  Because I think that would feel satisfying.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Well, good morning,” Paige answers.

  “Hey,” I respond, mouthing a thank you at the barista as I grab my iced latte and head for the door of the coffee shop. I woke up early and packed immediately, beating May to the front desk to check out. Buying caffeine still feels slightly illicit, even after living on my own for years. It’s a fitting way to end my time in this tiny town I was never meant to visit and will never return to. “How are you?” I add, as I emerge outside. Despite the early hour, it already feels warmer here than it did yesterday.

  “Fantastic. I’m on my way to Pilates and hoping the guy in my bed is gone by the time I get home, so I don’t have to break it to him I never want to see him again.”

  “You left a strange man alone in your apartment?” I ask as I set the coffee and muffin on the roof of my car to unlock the doors. I’m not re
ally surprised, but I infuse my voice with the scolding tone of a mother.

  “Uh, yes?”

  “What if he steals something?”

  “Then I’ll buy a replacement. This guy is not the type. Trust me. Not a lot going on upstairs. Or downstairs, for that matter. He was pretty to look at, though.”

  I laugh as I settle in the driver’s seat and turn on the car so I can start driving. “That’s terrible.”

  “Whatever. Not all of us have handsome lawyers panting after us.”

  I sober at her mention of William. “There are plenty of great guys out there.”

  “Uh-huh, sure. If you say so. Hang on.” There’s some distant talking in the background, and then she returns to the line. “Sorry. Had to tell the driver where to go. So… what’s up?”

  I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, inhaling deeply. “Do you know where Kennedy Jacobs is living now?”

  “Kennedy Jacobs? From high school?” It’s hard to get Paige’s usual light-hearted tone to shift much, but that question definitely did the trick.

  I nod, then remember she can’t see me at the moment. “Yes,” I confirm.

  Paige’s voice is more serious than I’ve heard it sound in years. “Why?”

  “I want—need—to talk to her.” I clear my throat, then take a sip of coffee.

  “About?”

  “You know what about,” I whisper.

  “Is this because William proposed? Some sort of closure? Because—”

  “Wait. How do you know William proposed?” I interrupt.

  “It’s all over social media. His parents posted a photo of you two. I thought that was why my best friend was calling me. Congrats, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” I let that word of gratitude sit for a minute. These aren’t two conversations I wanted to combine. “Do you know where she is?”

  Paige sighs, giving me the distinct impression she brought up William on purpose. Also that she may have just come to the same conclusion I unwittingly did yesterday: that Ryder James still has a serious hold on me. Strong enough that mention of the guy I’ve been dating for the past three years and just got engaged to isn’t much of a deterrent. A tighter grip than mere curiosity about an unresolved past. “Yeah,” she finally answers. “Kinsley’s kept in touch with her. I have her address from a card she sent when my dad died last year.”